


take the rabbit running

by isopsephic (kyrilu)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Community: daredevilkink, Consent Issues, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/isopsephic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 1x2. Wesley finds out that Matt is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Instead of reporting him to Fisk, he takes matters in his own hands. If Matt doesn't let Wesley have his way with him, Wesley will tell Fisk and get his friends killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take the rabbit running

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted over at the Daredevil Kink Meme: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=344277#cmt344277
> 
> Thank you to all the anons who commented there!
> 
> Also, this fic owes a hat tip to just_kiss_already's series Spiraling, because it's what motivated me to try my hand writing Matt/Wesley myself. :)
> 
> This is one of the most iddiest things I've ever written. /o\

Tonight, Matt’s the only one left in the office. Foggy and Karen have both gone out for dinner - they’d invited him along, but Matt had just smiled and waved them away, saying that he had some old papers to sort through in the office.

Sometimes there are nights when he wants to be alone, and the office fits that purpose. It’s nothing like being at home, listening to the hum of the billboard outside his window and being aware of his mask locked in that box, a tantalizing reminder of his double life. It’s nothing like perching on rooftops, every sound in the city coalescing into a single plea for help, for mercy, for God.

He’s tired. It’s not something that he would often admit to himself. He resolves to put aside this time for a much needed rest. He needs--he _needs_ \--he doesn’t know what he needs, but he finds himself wanting a meditation of sorts, like the kind that Stick had taught him to do.

Matt has a folder of documents on his laptop, full of speeches and opening and closing arguments and fragments of cases. He’s saved them for nights like these: he wants to feel the words fall and flow together, calming and familiar. He opens the folder now, picks a document, feels the refreshable braille display quiver against his fingertips.

This document isn’t that Thurgood Marshall quote that he has memorized so perfectly that it’s embedded into his purpose and skin, a part of him that could very much well be his _eyes._ It’s something else; Matt navigates his laptop to scroll down, and the braille spells out:

_\--I care not, Your Honor, whether the march begins at the gallows or when the gates of Joliet close upon them; there is nothing but the night, and that is little for any human being to expect. But there are others to consider--_

Matt pauses, then.

There’s someone at the door.

It’s not Foggy or Karen. There’s something brisk and official about this visitor’s steps on the ground that doesn’t have the same shift in standing that he’s come to memorize for his two friends. A client, maybe?

Matt counts the heartbeats at the other side. It’s steady and doesn’t have the sense of urgency or need that he would expect a client to have at this hour. He stands to open the door, and there’s a brief second of silence as the visitor scans the office, head turning and pivoting.

“This is Nelson & Murdock, I presume?” the visitor says. He has a crisp, sharp way of speaking; he smells like expensive cologne. There’s a general air about him that Matt places as a businessman, or maybe somebody who works in a corporation. Going by temperature, he’s dressed in a dark suit.

“It is,” Matt says. “Matt Murdock.” He holds out his arm in the direction of the speaker, and the visitor touches his hand, a light glancing of palms.

“James Wesley,” the visitor returns.

“It’s late, Mr. Wesley,” Matt says. “Generally, we’re closed at this time and aren’t open to clients. Is this an emergency of some kind…?” He settles back at his desk, closes his laptop, and gestures Wesley to sit down at the chair in front of him. Matt’s wary, on edge; he’s counting Wesley’s heartbeats and monitoring his breaths, his heightened senses mapping out every inch of the stranger’s body.

Wesley sits, his pants making a _shhh_ sound as he crosses his legs. “I’m here to commend your firm on the work you did with Karen Page’s case, Mr. Murdock. That was good work there, getting that girl off, especially with her being your first client. And pro bono as well--you and your partner are quite the Samaritans. Commendable.”

“We’re just doing our jobs,” Matt says, with a placid smile, and he thinks that he knows who Wesley is. Or rather, what Wesley may be connected to. “Miss Page’s case is over, now, however, and my partner and I are free agents. Are you interested in our services?”

“Not quite,” Wesley says. He leans forward from his chair,  brushing against the desk. Matt can almost feel his breath on his face. Wesley clarifies, “I am not exactly interested in your services, and I would say that Miss Page’s case is not quite over yet, either.”

“Is it?”

“I understand that she’s working for you and Mr. Nelson,” Wesley says. “Now. I meant to approach the three of you in a more formal capacity. In the daylight, on a possibly more friendly-sounding pretense, although of course this matter doesn’t exactly lend to politeness. But, Mr. Murdock, I wanted to seek you out first. I wanted to see you first.”

Matt’s jaw tenses. He makes himself relax the muscle. “Why the curiosity?”

“You should be careful being seen in alleyways, being pulled out of dumpsters. There’s always a witness.”

Matt freezes.

Not now. _Not now._

This is everything that he’s fought for, being pulled apart by the soft and menacing words of this suit-clad stranger. He fights to keep his face neutral, almost confused, but he can’t help his fists clenching together tightly.

Wesley says, “We managed to find somebody, hours later, who’d managed to see the curious sight of a woman and a boy pulling a man out of a dumpster. Had to convince him to describe the scene clearly, of course--messed up one of my suits in the process--but I managed to get a sketch out of him.

“Your bad luck, Mr. Murdock, is that this particular witness happens to be one of those starving-New-York-City-artist types. He lives right across the apartment building you got carried into. He’s got a talent for photorealism, and the moment he finished, I recognized Hell’s Kitchen very own Devil as the the blind lawyer who had gotten Karen Page off the hook. Imagine that, Mr. Murdock. Imagine that.”

Wesley’s tone of voice is mild throughout the entire retelling. The only moment when his heartbeat rises, it’s when he mentions torture.

“Claire,” Matt says, his voice half-hoarse. “He drew Claire, too.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t,” Matt says. “Don’t hurt her. She’s not a part of this.”

He thinks of the every person who has been killed, deaths masked as insignificant, deaths masked as something small, as outside the larger scheme of things. He thinks of Karen, lying and afraid.

“She became a part of this the moment she helped you,” Wesley says. “And she’s not the only one in the equation. Mr. Nelson. Miss Page. Anyone and everyone.”

Matt wants to rise up from his desk. He wants to grab Wesley by his suit collar and slam him against the walls and to yell at him to _make this stop._ But there’s too much at risk. He’s exposed. _They’re_ exposed. He swallows, and then he feels Wesley’s hands catch at the side of his face. As if he’s the blind one tracing Matt’s features, his cheeks and his stubble. It’s a surprisingly warm touch, one that makes him shudder at the unexpected softness.

Matt wants to shrug Wesley’s hands away, but he feels paralyzed.

“Maybe I could help you, Matthew,” Wesley murmurs. “You’re very intriguing, you know. Let me stay here for awhile.”

“Help me,” Matt says, through gritted teeth, “how?”

“I’m very high up in the chain of command,” Wesley says. “I could call off certain...accidents, if I argued eloquently enough that specific deaths or disappearances would be unnecessary or suspicious. But it all entirely depends on you.”

Wesley slips off Matt’s glasses. He wipes a finger underneath Matt’s eyes, as if testing for tears, for moisture.

There’s a warmth emanating from Wesley’s body. Matt _knows._ He knows what the picked-up rhythm of Wesley’s heart means.

“All you need to do,” Wesley says, “is listen to whatever I say.”

And Matt nods. A slight tilt of his head. He rasps, “Don’t hurt them. Just--tell me what to do.”

He hears Wesley let out a sigh, and his fingers drift to Matt’s hair. Wesley whispers, “Good boy. _Good boy._ ”

The praise. There’s something about the praise that makes Matt hazy, makes his mind fuzzed over and blurred. _I’m short-circuiting_ , he thinks dimly, because it’s all mixing up, the fear and the arousal and the tenderness all thrown up in the air, and he’s never been so desperate before. It’s all amplified, a thousand fold, like there’s pinpricks all over his skin and inside he’s screaming to be shut down right now, he’s a little boy writhing on his bed again hearing pain from the city, _stop please stop--_

“Kneel for me,” Wesley says, firm and quiet, and Matt’s legs buckle. When his knees hit the floor, Matt feels his panic start to subside, and he feels sick at the realization.

(Because he’s listening. He’s letting go of control, letting his senses just _feel_ , trickling out to encapsulate Wesley, who’s guiding him, holding the reins, and it feels like freedom.)

“Tell me something, Matthew,” Wesley says soothingly, as Matt turns his face up to Wesley before his feet. "You're obviously blind. I've had my doubts about those Russian idiots, but it's been established that you're the vigilante in question. How?"

"The accident I had," Matt says, quietly. Wesley makes an encouraging sound as Matt speaks, one of his hands starting to make circles on Matt's hair. Matt opens his mouth to say something, stutters; he feels this sensation rocketing through his veins, Wesley's pulse throbbing against his head.

Matt continues, "The - the chemicals that went in my eyes altered my senses. Every little thing: touch, taste, smell, hearing. Every little drop of pressure in the air and rise and fall of temperature. I know when it's going to rain before the sky turns gray. I can - I can fight."

"Mm," Wesley murmurs. "Interesting. And how does this feel right now - my hand on your hair?"  He intensifies if touch by a slight increment, immediately perceptible to Matt.

Matt's body makes a movement like a spasm. He lets out a ragged exhale. "It feels like it's everywhere," he whispers. "Crawling over my skin. I'm tense, right now. I can usually control it. But I can't right now. I can't right now."

"You're scared," Wesley notes. Then he smiles - Matt can hear it in his voice, and he's so attuned to him that he can feel that minute twitch on his face. "Shh. Shh, Matthew. I want you to keep _feeling_ for me. Feel my hand in your hair and how the sensation goes down to your cock and makes it hard. But I need you to control it. Bring it to the brink. Listen to me - you only feel what I need you to feel.”

“I can’t do that,” Matt gasps. “I can’t--”

Matt’s hips jerk. He feels his eyes rolling upward, zigzagging in its sockets.

Then Wesley slaps him across the face.

“ _Listen to me_ ,” Wesley repeats sharply. “I will kill your friends right in front of you, Mr. Murdock. I will shoot them in front of you, and all your senses will be able to do is hear them scream, their heartbeats fading out and their breaths cut short. Control yourself.”

“Y-yes,” Matt says, his teeth clattering against each other, as if he’s in somewhere cold. “Can you--call me what you did before. It made it feel better, a little bit.”

“Call you what?”

“When you made me kneel,” Matt says. His cheeks flush, hot and angry. He’s revolted at himself; he’s usually been able to grasp his senses and direct them finely and easily, but this is reduction, this is regression; he’s nothing but a thing that feels and feels and can’t shut anything out.

“Ah.” Wesley clicks his tongue. “I’m not sure you’ve earned it. You just refused me about a second ago, after all.”

Wesley says, “Beg, Mr. Murdock.” 

Matt bites his tongue. Instead, he sways forward, and he nuzzles his mouth at the warmth of Wesley’s waist, at the shape of his cock. Feels so good, rubbing and burrowing his face against the fabric; Wesley’s breathing cracks and he _groans_ , a deep guttural sound that rumbles through Matt’s body. 

Abruptly, Wesley lets out a growl and slaps Matt again. This time, it stings like thorns, fingernails catching the side of his cheek. He's bleeding now. Matt’s still panting, but he obeys, pulls away from Wesley’s still-clothed erection.

“You didn’t listen to me,” Wesley says. “Matthew, I didn’t tell you to touch me. _Beg._ ”

Matt is still. Then, his mouth dry, he says: “Please. Please. Just--get this over with. I’m your good boy. Let me suck your cock. I’m your good boy, please--”

“Good,” Wesley mutters. “But you can do better.” 

He pulls Matt’s hair, a sudden fierce twist. Matt lets out a muted cry and says, “Stop. Stop stop stop, please stop--”

The pain courses through him, reverberating, sensitivity hiking up and making him tremble. He’s a mess. He’s no hero. He’s useless and begging and he can’t control himself.

He hears Wesley start to undress. Pull down his pants, his boxers. Matt can smell the sharp scent of Wesley's arousal.

"Fuck your face on my cock," Wesley orders. "Go on. Rub it like you did on my pants. There - there - just like that. _Good boy_."

Matt grunts, runs his mouth along Wesley's cock, nudging his cheeks and chin along the length. Just nipping, gasping, putting hungry friction on skin and feeling warmth shoot through his body as if he's on fire.

"Good boy," Wesley says. "Good - _nngh_ \- boy. Such a pretty mouth. You're doing so well."

Wesley comes on Matt's face, a splatter of white on his mouth, on the curve of his cheeks, on the crook of his nose. He makes a low, breathless laughing sound.

Wesley puts a thumb on his own come, rubs it underneath Matt's eyes as if he's tracing war paint. He murmurs, "I've never thought that I would fuck the devil."

And it's that - that light stroke of a finger that sets Matt off. Makes him grab Wesley by his thighs for support, coming as if by the easy touch of a button. He lets out a keening noise, and spurts in his underwear.

And Wesley makes that low, breathless laughing sound again. He kneels down, too. He kisses Matt's forehead - Matt can feel Wesley's glasses and smile against his temple - and Wesley says into a clump of Matt's hair: "Thank you. Such a good boy."

Wesley rests a hand against Matt's chest, and kisses him on the mouth, licking at the leftover remnants of his ejaculate. Matt just lets him, his eyelids fluttering, his heart still racing.

Wesley rises. He dresses, pulling up his pants and underwear. He says, "I am a man of my word, Mr. Murdock. My employer is, in fact, unaware of your witness' existence. And he won't know, unless you give me reason to inform him. Your friends will be left unharmed, at the moment.

"But, Mr. Murdock, rest assured that I still have the witness' sketch of you. I will certainly be back for other...appointments in the future."

He leaves.

Mart closes his eyes. He licks his lips, tastes the blood that Wesley had left with him after that second slap, and he feels as if he's been broken.

 _Good boy_ , Wesley had called him. And he had liked it. Begged for it.

Matt draws his knees inward toward his chest and drops his head between them, shuddering.


End file.
